


No Hero in her Sky

by Hecate



Category: Tru Calling
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-22
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-22 01:04:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/604118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hecate/pseuds/Hecate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She needs Andrew to be different, she needs him to be a jerk because Nick wasn't and Nick is dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No Hero in her Sky

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Not mine, no money made, the title is taken from Damien Rice's "Blower's Daughter"

When Andrew kisses her on his boat five days after she saved his life, Tru leans in for a moment and lets herself be, lets him be gentle with her, his mouth soft and his hands a caress. But then she remembers Nick: the way his finger stroked over her skin, the way his kiss had tasted of ashes and life, how his body looked not much later, still covered in ash but all life gone from him. She remembers Nick and she can't stand this, can't have this gentleness.

She needs Andrew to be different; she needs him to be a jerk because Nick wasn't and Nick is dead. Because whenever she cares, they leave her.

She withdraws, pushing Andrew away and looking up at him. She forces herself to look hard and strong and not like a girl that needs holding and butterfly kisses.

"Not like this," she hears herself say, and for a moment she isn't sure that it's really her. Because that's not her voice, all bitter and metal; it can't be. But it is.

"Not like what?"

"Like we would matter."

Andrew frowns at her, deeper lines making their way over his face and taking away the kindness. For a moment it scares her, the anger she sees hidden in the lines around his mouth, but then she remembers that she wants this. That she wants anger and frustration and a body that's harder and stronger than hers.

"What is this for you?" he asks her and she forces herself to shrug. She won't tell him about Nick and failure and people leaving all around her, she won't tell anyone about this. "Fucking," she answers him, finally, and he frowns again.

She then remembers that he carried Sarah's picture with him the day he died and that she saw their photo on the table when she was on the boat for the first time. Tru wonders what this is for him, if he's trying to turn her into a new Sarah and make it right this time. She shudders at the idea. She won't replace anybody, especially not Sarah.

And he doesn't mean anything to her, isn't a replacement for what she's lost or a new beginning. She only wants him so he can bite Nick's taste out of her mouth.

"I'm not Sarah," she tells him, and Andrew's frown turns into a glare when she says his wife's name. 

"Obviously." 

"I'm not Sarah and I'm not your lover. You don't even know me. So what do you think this is?"

"Fucking," he repeats her earlier answer, and suddenly he has her pinned to the wall, his hands pushing hers over her head. His grip is hard, too hard, and she knows he expects her to protest. But she doesn't. Because this is it. This is the opposite of what she had with Nick, the opposite of caring. It's as if this night will negate the day she had with Nick and after this, after this she will be _fine_.

When he kisses her again it's different, it's what she wanted, lips and tongue rough against hers, five o'clock shadow scratching her skin, and teeth almost drawing blood. It's messy, it's mean, it's good and she moans into his mouth, her whole body straining to get closer to Andrew. When he pulls away she wants to follow, but his hands are still pinning her against the wall, holding her still, and she bites down the curse forming in her mouth.

He grins at her, and his eyes are dark and wild. "You like it like that, huh? Should have guessed." His hands push her higher then and she's on her tiptoes, stretched out before him. For a moment she feels lost, naked, scared, his eyes raking over her body, but then he leans in again, kissing her, finally letting go of her hands and she wraps her arms around his neck. Something to hold on, something to tear on and she rips his shirt when she pulls him closer. He laughs into her mouth, a hard sound echoing against her tongue, and she bites his lips harder that she should.

He doesn't mind.

And Tru wants more, needs more than this. She needs more than the taste of his blood, more than the feeling of his skin beneath her teeth. She just needs.

Andrew gives. His hands travel over her back, gripping her hips before cupping her ass, hard hands and a hard grip, and she gets it. He pulls her up, pushes her up and her legs come up around him as forceful as his hands. She's still kissing him, she can't stop and when she catches his lips between her teeth again he growls at her, deep and angry.

It's her turn to laugh.

Andrew stumbles through the room still holding her up, her legs wrapped around him and her teeth finding more and more skin to mark. One of her arms is still around his neck while the other holds on to his hair.

He collapses under her onto the bed and the motion tears his shirt further and makes her bite down harder than before. She tastes blood again and she pulls back for a moment, looking at Andrew, looking at scrapes and scratches and red spots.

This isn't her, she thinks again, this isn't her. But it doesn't matter. Not now, not here, not until tomorrow.

She reaches out and pushes Andrew down, her hands and hips pinning him now. She likes this, likes this illusion of power. She grins down at Andrew, and he grins right back and suddenly pushes himself up, kissing her again while his hands grip at her shirt and pull. Soon her shirt is gone and his follows, pieces of ripped cloth thrown into a corner. More skin, finally, and she scratches over his arms, leans in and bites. Another growl from Andrew, another bite and then there's a flurry of movement and he's on top of her, leering down. And God, she needs him now, she needs everything, and when his mouth wanders from her face over her throat to her breasts all she can think is _yes_ and _now_.

His mouth and lips are everywhere then, tongue trailing over her body accompanied by his hands, and when he bites into her skin and his hands turn rough again, Tru arches up against him.

His hands are big and strong and warm and she knows his fingers will leave as many marks as his teeth. She knows that by tomorrow she will hate the reminder, but now… now this is good. Now she needs the blooming marks to ground her, she needs the feeling of her skin breaking beneath his teeth and his tongue over the pain to forget that there's a world outside. That there's what's left of her family outside and dead people talking to her.

Their pants follow the example their shirts set before, space between them for some seconds and fumbled movements until Andrew is above her again and she can feel him better now. His lips follow a longer path now, mapping her body to her hips and tights, hands grabbing her panties and tearing them. His fingers are spread over her hips then, holding her down while his mouth wanders in circles, making her yearn for more, making Tru bite her lips to keep herself from begging. But when his tongue finds its way, hot and good and right, she moans out anyway, bucking against the hands pinning her down. She can feel a slight chuckle against her skin, a vibration that shoots through her body, and she wants him to keep on doing this, wants the heat and the slickness. And Andrew keeps on giving until she's shaking, her whole body alive with need and hunger and not being Tru. 

When he pulls back it almost hurts, it's emptiness and space returning until Andrew stretches out above her, his mouth finding hers again for a hard kiss that leaves her lips sore again. She can feel him, hard and unyielding, and Tru bucks up again, meeting him with her body. 

"Needy much?" he chuckles against her lips, his hands trying to take hold of her arms again. 

"Look who's talking," and she rears up and bites the laughter from his mouth.

She pulls back moments later, grinning up at him, and she sees her need mirrored in his face, need and something else. Something that scares her just for seconds because Tru knows it's on her face, too. But then Andrew kisses her again, and it's teeth and tongue and some kind of pain again, and it burns her nerves.

"Fuck me." It's still not her voice - she has lost her own voice the first time he kissed her - and it's an order, not a request. "Fuck me," she repeats, and Andrew pulls back for seconds, grabbing a condom from the nightstand. Fumbling movements until he's ready and teeth over her shoulder close the distance between them again. 

He's faster now, impatient, and when he pushes inside it hurts and when he moves it hurts until she falls into the pain and moves with it. Her body moves in a staccato rhythm then: the drum of her pulse, the beat of her heart, the push of her hips. Tru moves with him but they're out of sync, desperate, grabbing each other. Her nails dig into his shoulders and his hands bruise her arms, and it's as hard as their lips were before. 

They don't kiss now, Andrew's lips an angry line above her and Tru biting on her own. He's moaning, his breath ghosting harshly over her face, and his grip gets harder on her arms. It urges her on, this hardness, and she moves frantically, closing her eyes, being alone with the heat and the pressure and the feeling of being taken. Her body clenches around him, the heat inside of her pulsing through everything, and Tru feels like screaming. She feels like living again.

She comes hard and it feels like crashing through her own body, falling to pieces and rebuilding herself, and she feels broken for seconds and she feels whole for some more. She feels Andrew come with a harsh sound, a name. When she realizes it's hers, it feels like heat and hunger all over again. It feels like being endless. And then, then she remembers how to breathe and she remembers how to feel something different than need and hunger and desire.

Andrew moves away slowly, and his warmth stays for moments until her skin cools down and the distance between them lets the sweat dry on her body. Andrew pulls a blanket over them with shaky hands, settling down beside her. He looks strange now, a bit faded, a bit less solid. She wants to touch him, but she doesn't.

It's almost quiet, their breathing calming down, the waves and the harbour a backdrop to the rustling of their blanket. Tru wishes for a cigarette. She doesn't smoke, but it would be something to stop time. To make this last.

"You want to stay the night?" Andrew sounds like before, he sounds like their first kiss, careful and scarily kind. She wants to tell him no; she wants to leave because he sounds like this was more. But she doesn't want to leave either. She doesn't want to be Tru again, the girl the dead are talking to. 

"Yes," she finally answers and he nods. "Ok." They fall silent then, and they don't speak again. Andrew is asleep before her, calm breathing matching the waves lapping against the boat. It's a calm night, and she thinks it must be a beautiful one somewhere. Somewhere, not here.

But there's almost comfort in this, and when Tru falls asleep beside Andrew, the boat rocks her like a cradle and she doesn't dream of her mother or Nick or fire or dead bodies speaking. She dreams of a road stretching out before her, and she's walking with steady feet, the sky blue above her and a dotted line in the middle of the road leading her way.

She wakes slowly in the morning. She smells the ocean and she feels the waves stronger than the night before. It's still quiet, it's easy in a way, and she's grateful for not smelling fire, for not feeling broken. Tru knows it won't last forever but she has now, she has this morning and she stays still, just breathing.

Andrew is still asleep when she finally gets up. Tru moves slowly, quietly, collecting her clothes. Her panties are torn but the rest are okay and she dresses without waking Andrew. For a moment, she wants to leave him a letter. For a moment, she wants to stay. She watches him sleep, and she wonders how it would be if this was real. But it isn't real; she won't let it be. She won't replace Sarah and she won't love another dead man walking.

Tru closes the door as quietly as she can behind her, leaving the boat with easy steps. She fights down the urge to stand still and watch the waves for a while and she drowns the urge to turn around and go back. She walks and she keeps on walking, her stride becoming faster.

This morning her body is aching from something different than crying. She stretches into the pain, enjoying every slight tremor running through her muscles. She can feel herself return to her body, visions of her mother and her family and Nick filling the blanks again. She can feel her body clenching up, ready to run again. But she can ignore it for now, just for some hours, and she tells Tru to back off. Back off for a while and let herself be a vacuum, unwritten and neither the dead nor death can reach her for a while. For some hours, she doesn't have to care. For some hours, she won't lose anybody. A day maybe, maybe two.

She wishes this could last forever.


End file.
